


matters of the heart

by WingsOfTime



Series: ikael [19]
Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Hypothermia, One-Sided Attraction, Unrequited Love, more conversations on beds, some sappy stuff that hurt me in my handfingers to write
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-07
Updated: 2018-12-07
Packaged: 2019-09-13 16:53:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16896390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WingsOfTime/pseuds/WingsOfTime
Summary: "He should visit the Lord Commander, when he has a chance. Mayhaps they can—mayhaps they can talk."He did, before. And they did not.





	matters of the heart

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: the poetic waxed about the warrior of light by a certain character does not in any way reflect the views of the author. he's not that great lol

The snow covering eastern Coerthas this morning is a vast, crystalline blanket of silence, smothering all indication of life and its continuance. At the very least it seems that way, in the wake of the two-day long blizzard that has only barely settled in the past bell. Aymeric has grown accustomed to the seeming lifelessness of the region; he knows there are snow hares settling in their dens, knows that not all has been replaced by gnashing, razor sharp teeth and barren tundra. He wonders, idly, if someone less familiar with the region would give its dual nature a second thought.

“I must needs thank you for personally assisting in the search, Ser Aymeric.” Archon Thancred's voice is quiet, mostly lacking in affect. His words seem to fade into the falling snow around them, as if getting sucked into the cold, and Aymeric has to listen carefully in order to hear him. “I am sure you have put aside many duties to make room for this last-minute endeavor.”

“It is important,” Aymeric replies gravely, peering out over the landscape to search for any discrepancies in its pure whiteness. “I would not have Ikael lost to Halone’s ire in the dead of winter. Beyond being our acclaimed Warrior of Light, he is… a dear friend.”

 “… Indeed.” Thancred's gaze is piercing, although maddeningly indecipherable. He fixes it on Aymeric for a sharp second, then returns to scouring the landscape. “I understand the sentiment.”

The form that Aymeric has been squinting at in the distance becomes clearer, shifts into a tree. He exhales; a soft huff of disappointment misting into the air and disappearing. Too big to be a miqo’te, obviously, but he had hoped…

“He spoke highly of you.” Thancred is not too far away, so Aymeric speaks once more, hoping he does not mind the idle conversation. “We had opportunity to have dinner together once, and he told me of some of his adventures with you Scions.”

“Dinner?” Thancred bends down to check something on the ground. “Ah, yes—he mentioned it to me. Before I arrived with Alisaie, no? Quite a while back.”

Aymeric is brought back to that evening; a quiet night when everything had seemingly begun to settle. Ikael had been carrying himself… differently than what Aymeric had gotten used to—Aymeric remembers the flickering of the candlelight reflecting in his eyes, the warmth of the food echoed in his smile. He casts his gaze down to what Thancred is peering at in the snow, but can make out nothing in particular.

“Yes. He spoke of the evening to you?” Naught but good memories, Aymeric hopes. Well, at least of the dinner itself.

Where he cannot see, Thancred's gaze flickers to the side before settling back to the shallow patch of snow he had noticed. It is not difficult to flatten out the small smile that the memory summons forth.

“Yes,” he says, straightening up. “He mentioned moogles and creampuffs.” _Among other things_. Thancred points to the trail he has found; light, scattered, and only barely discernable from the rest of the snow surrounding them. “Found evidence of someone passing this way. I cannot tell if it is Ikael, since it has been rather heavily snowed over, but a small lead is better than nothing. And the fact that I found it at all means it is recent.”

“Heading off… in the opposite direction of Ishgard.” Aymeric sighs. “The blizzard must have turned him around.”

“Miqo’te are not accustomed to cold climes.” Now that he has a trail, Thancred begins to carefully pursue it, taking care not to tread over what little he can make out. Aymeric follows him with a silent, heavy step. “Ikael, along with the majority of Seeker tribes, is native to the desert. He has difficulty navigating frozen regions—more so when he cannot make out the sun, I am sure.”

“Then a blizzard would be ill luck indeed.” Aymeric shakes his head. He stills, suddenly, as his eyes catch a shift in the terrain. “Master Thancred—over there! The ground levels off oddly.”

“And now I am the one who cannot see what you do,” Thancred murmurs as they run over. “Good thing we are both here.”

As they approach, Thancred spots what Aymeric’s sharper (and doubly available) eyes had: the edge of a ledge outlooking a canyon—at first small, and then surging low into the ground, getting deeper as they draw near. Thancred begins to climb down, taking care not to slip. He is looking for—a hole, maybe, any opening of any kind—

There! An uneven gap between two icy rocks. Large enough for someone to crawl through, but small enough that Thancred himself would have some difficulty in doing so. He calls up to Aymeric, who has been waiting up above with a restlessly worried expression.

“I cannot tell how far it goes in,” he says when Aymeric is peering at the opening with him. “Might I borrow your keen gaze, Lord Commander?”

Aymeric’s eyes widen. “There is something—hold on. Ikael? Are you in there?”

The words do not echo. Instead, there is a twitch of movement—a flick, almost as if something inside is reacting.

“Ikael?” Thancred calls his name into the hole, leaning forwards. “Is that you, or have we disturbed a rabbit?”

The moment in which they both hold their breaths waiting for an answer seems to last forever. Then, quiet and slurred:

“Izme.”

“Thank the Fury,” Aymeric breathes, glad because they found him, and doubly so because he is conscious. Thancred is already reaching into the hole. Not two fulms in, he feels something soft and—cold, far too cold. His expression sobers.

“Ikael, can you get out of there?” he asks, keeping his voice steady despite the icy worry chipping at him. Aymeric, beside him, presses his lips together.

A beat, and then, just as quiet: “Mno.”

“He is cold to the touch,” Thancred informs Aymeric as he presses his palm to what he can now identify as Ikael’s head. He feels a gentle push back into his hand. “Most likely hypothermic.”

“Then we must needs get him out as quickly as we can.” Aymeric glances around the opening, checking for any looseness in the stone.

“Hot.” Ikael’s voice sounds surprised. His head presses slightly more firmly against Thancred's hand.

Which is… decidedly not even warm. “Is that so?” Thancred says, half to make light and half out of sardonic bitterness. He begins to pull his hand back, and… there is a shuffling sound, and Ikael’s head follows.

“C’feel the hot,” he slurs. “Can’ feel… ’nything else.”

Thancred and Aymeric exchange glances. Thancred continues to slowly withdraw his hand, and Ikael shuffles forwards and follows his touch.

“Looks like you are not as trapped as you say you are, hm?” Thancred murmurs. Aymeric watches their slow progress, holding his breath and hoping.

“’m trapped here,” Ikael insists. “Can’ move.”

“Evidently,” Aymeric says as Ikael’s full head emerges. He blinks at them hazily.

“ _Heyy_ ,” he mutters. “…Pretty.”

Now that his head is out where Thancred can see, he can try to pull the rest of Ikael through. He reaches into the gap, trying to find a hold on his body. It is difficult; the space is small and Ikael takes up most of it. One of Thancred's hands finds a shoulder, and the other is crushed against icy rock as Ikael shifts. Thancred grunts at that, but manages to wrench it out.

“You need to work with me, alright?” he says to Ikael. He gets a blank look in reply.

“Wait.” Ser Aymeric’s tone is worried, but curt with urgency. “Do not jostle him overmuch. If he is hypothermic—and it seems increasingly likely that he is—then any excessive rubbing or jostling may cause his heart to give.”

“May cause his—good gods!” Thancred exclaims. “You could not have mentioned that earlier? He has been doing nothing _but_ jostling himself.”

“’m not hypnothermic,” Ikael informs them.

“… Only in extreme situations,” Aymeric admits, “But I would rather be safe than sorry.”

“Alright.” Thancred retracts from Ikael, who keeps gazing at them with that alarming blankness. “Ikael, can you get your arms out?”

“What arms?” Ikael wonders. “Don’ have them.”

“I am going to assume,” Thancred says through the spike of panic that goes through him at those words, “That you mean you cannot _feel_ them.”

“Nope!” Ikael says. “No arms.” He grins suddenly, as if he has just made the world’s funniest joke. Thancred does not quite agree.

 “Ikael.” Aymeric’s voice is low, serious, and touched with a softness at odds with the harshness of their situation. “We need you to come out here with us, alright? Please.”

“Hmm.” Ikael seems to consider. “But… can’ stay here an’ sleep.”

“You can sleep when we get to Ishgard,” Aymeric bargains. “I promise. You will have the largest, most luxurious bed in the city to rest in.”

Right now, looking at his expression, Thancred does not even doubt that. He stays quiet, watching the exchange.

Ikael blinks, very slowly. There is a moment where it seems as if his eyes will stay closed, but it thankfully passes. He says, “’m cozy here.”

“Ikael.” Aymeric’s tone is tinged with desperation. “ _Please._ ”

Ikael looks at him, gives another frighteningly slow blink, and then sighs. “Fine,” he mumbles.

He— _slithers_ —Thancred automatically catches him with a grunt when he slips ungracefully out of his hidey-hole. Ikael is… far, far too cold. He does not have any skin other than his head and part of his neck exposed, thankfully, but he is not shivering, and is nearly as pale as a corpse.

“If I may.” Aymeric holds out his arms, expression sombre. Thancred falters for but a brief moment before nodding and shifting Ikael into his hold. Aymeric lifts him as if he weighs nothing, moves as if he is not encumbered at all. Thancred shelves the moment for future teasing, but he cannot bring himself to find humour in it right now, not with worry sticking like sap to his heart.

The journey back to Ishgard is rushed and quiet. Aymeric had brought a thick, furry hide for the excursion, and he wraps it around an unmoving Ikael. Thancred, for his part, keeps his eye on Ikael’s, making sure they stay open.

“A little chill is not going to get the better of you, my friend,” he says when Ikael’s lids begin to fall, and they flicker back up. “Now all you need to do is prove it.”

~*~

Ikael does not know how long he has been traipsing through this frozen hellscape. No offense to the Ishgardians; he is sure it is a lovely frozen hellscape to them. But Ikael is—gods—so _cold_ , and so _numb_ where he isn’t cold, and he is making so very little progress. Each step he takes is more of a stumble, and each breath he gasps in chokes the air out of his lungs. The bite of the wind is a vicious, cruel thing, lighting his skin on fire and burning it in ice all at once.

A particularly violent gust hits him and he sways, tottering on his feet. The vacant white void around him tilts, turns sideways—or is that upwards?—and a surge of dizziness hits Ikael. He falls to the ground, tumbling into the snow when his legs fail to steady him and his hands fail to catch him. He is crushing parts of himself, maybe, but he cannot feel them, and he cannot see them. All he can see is snow, stretching out for cruel malms in all direction. He chokes out a sob, and the wind steals it from him, howling with greedy laughter.

An eternity later, he stumbles to his feet. He keeps trudging forwards, going in what he desperately hopes is the right direction. If he… if he does not make it back, will anyone look for him? Or will they simply write him off and expect him to somehow come back from another near-death experience as if it all barely matters?

Ikael… does not know. He is so cold, so lonely, so _alone_. The blizzard has dried his eyes and he has to use what little energy he has to keep moving, but he wishes to do nothing more than lie in the snow and cry himself to sleep as he used to do not so long ago. To bleed his life force out through tears and let the snow cover him until he is as frozen as nature itself beneath it.

He trips. Falls, rolls.

He looks up, dazedly searching for his attacker, and sees… an opening. Between two jagged rocks, tucked away snugly in a hidden ravine. _Shelter_ , his mind croaks feebly, and without thinking he crawls towards it. Somehow—by the grace of Halone’s will, perhaps—he manages to make his way through. The hole is larger than it appears on the outside, opening up into a small space that is enough to fit his whole body, if he is squeezes in tightly enough. Ikael manages to sluggishly turn himself around, shoving the hands he cannot feel down between his thighs and letting his head slump, exhausted.

Ikael’s eyes close. He will stay here for the night, he thinks, and then, perhaps…

He… does not know. He is so tired. He just wants to sleep.

He hopes someone comes for him, but he does not have much hope.

~*~

Thancred does not expect Ser Aymeric to lead them to the Borel mansion, but that is where they are. They have been ushered into the “warmest room in the House” by a poor steward that looks as if he, too, does not why they are here instead of at a healing house. Now they are idling in front of a fire, Ikael’s clothes are getting wet and dangerous as the snow melts on him, and Ser Aymeric is standing there doing absolutely nothing but looking panicked.

Really, Thancred continues to be impressed by his ability to be an efficient politician.

“Ser Aymeric, if I may be so rude as to hurry this along,” Thancred says. Aymeric starts, blinks rapidly. Then he straightens his spine minutely, slants his shoulders, lifts his chin.

“Yes—yes, of course,” he says, a dignified spur of action once more. “I shall go fetch him dry clothing at once.”

He turns on his heel to do so, and Thancred looks at Ikael, slumped half-conscious on a couch. His gaze his distant and hazy, but occasionally flicking to different parts of the room, and even though he lies mostly unmoving, he is breathing. It is enough of a sign of awareness that Thancred hesitates before moving to undo the ties and straps of his clothing. Ikael had mentioned to him once that he does not like the way wet cloth drags across his skin, but Thancred has little choice but to remove it.

Ikael does not react overmuch, besides making a vacantly surprised noise and shifting the angle of his head to stare at Thancred. Thancred is more worried by his lack of complaint than he is reassured, and so he says nothing. Instead he keeps his lips pressed together and his movements as swift and clinical as he can. He keeps Ikael’s smalls on, since they are mostly dry, and sets his clothing aside to be taken by a servant.

Now he can see the off-coloured patches of skin on Ikael’s body, especially at his feet and fingers. Frostbite, in varying stages. Thancred swallows. Hopefully, there is nothing severe enough to warrant amputation. He cannot find any black spots at Ikael’s extremities, at the very least. He would prefer to send for a healer regardless; best to have him looked over.

“These are the smallest clothes I could…” Aymeric’s voice trails off behind him. Thancred turns, dismisses his hesitation without much thought, and takes the clothing.

Ikael murmurs at him nonsensically as he is dressed. Thancred meets his gaze a few times and finds it the same as before: soft and unfocused, but definitely settled on him. It is when Thancred is hesitating over whether or not to put gloves on his hands that Ikael speaks legibly.

“Why’d you… look for me?” His voice is a crackling mumble. Thancred does not let himself entertain the fleeting fancy that his speech is less slurred than it was before.

“It is a good thing we did, is it not?” he answers, slipping around the question. He decides against the gloves. Ikael blinks at him hazily, but does not seem to notice the evasion.

“It was at Master Thancred's insistence that we went to look for you at all.” Aymeric cuts in. His head is bowed, chin settled on steepled fingers. He looks down, dark eyelashes sweeping long shadows cast by the fire over his cheekbones.

“He said he had lost track of you, and he thought you might have gone out into the blizzard for some Fury-forsaken reason. He came to me only to request additional manpower, but…” Aymeric shakes his head. “I couldn’t _not_ join in the search personally. If you truly had been lost to the Fury’s wrath, I…”

He closes his eyes. “I… know not what I would have done,” he finishes, voice deep and quiet.

When he opens his eyes, Thancred's gaze is fixed upon him once more—that same unreadable expression that Aymeric is sure, somehow, masks a clever shrewdness that sees far more than Aymeric is realistically comfortable with. He shifts in his seat—a nervous tell he should not do—and clasps his hands together.

Ikael has not said anything since he asked his question. Thancred seems to realize this at the same time Aymeric does. He moves with sudden urgency, shaking Ikael and snapping his fingers over his head. Ikael whines in complaint, and Thancred's shoulders unstiffen, relax as his reaction visibly bleeds out of him. Aymeric is not the only one who can be read despite his better learnings, then, when Fate’s feared footfalls can be heard.

Aymeric has… not failed to notice the way Thancred handles Ikael. How careful yet sure he is of where and how to touch him, how his fingers pause to cradle Ikael’s shoulder before smoothing down his borrowed tunic, how he seems at ease being this close to him. Aymeric cannot help but wonder if their relationship is tinged a different hue than friendship. Or if it has been in the past, perhaps. The thought makes something akin to envy pulse in his heart, and he swallows it down before flicking his eyes away to the fire.

A serving girl arrives with the announcement that the guest bedroom has been prepared with extra blankets, as per Aymeric’s request. He thanks her with a smile before shooting a questioning glance at Thancred.

“Do you mind if I…?” He gestures to Ikael’s form, feeling slightly awkward. Thancred seems to notice this, if his raised eyebrow is any indication.

“Do I mind if you what?” he asks pointedly. He rises, steps back from Ikael. “Well, come on then. We should get him all warm and cozy as soon as possible. I am sure yourself, as a native Ishgardian, would be familiar with the basic treatments of hypothermia.”

“Indeed. Layers of blankets on as much of him as we can cover, and no sudden heat to his extremities. Perhaps a hot drink, if he can manage it,” Aymeric answers smoothly, ignoring the niggling feeling that he is being mocked. He lifts Ikael in one gentle motion and makes for the stairs, pushing aside the part of him that notices the delicate fall of his eyelashes, the way his fingers curl slightly against Aymeric’s chest, or—Fury forbid—how he noses into his elbow with a soft murmur, almost like a purr, as if he feels safe being coddled like a precious th—

“Is your guest room beyond the wall you are about to walk into, or is it the door on the right?” Thancred is most definitely mocking him now.

Aymeric clears his throat, hoping the flush he can feel crawling up his neck is not too evident. He carries Ikael into the guest room, and Thancred steps ahead of him to pull back the blankets before Aymeric lays Ikael down.

Thancred tucks him in with the same careful gentleness he had used earlier, and is gifted with a sleepy smile. Ikael mumbles something Aymeric cannot hear, and Thancred's face eases, suddenly—a drastic change from his usual demeanor. He murmurs something back, touching Ikael’s cheek with his fingertips. Aymeric looks away.

“You may rest now, Ikael,” he says once he catches, out of the corner of his eye, Thancred moving away from the bed. He looks back at Ikael, and his voice softens instinctively. “Please, my friend. Sleep. You are safe and well-cared for here.”

Of _that_ he has no doubt.

~*~

It is late afternoon, and still Ikael has not awoken. Aymeric is not overly worried; the chirurgeon had said he is well on his way to recovery, that all his body needs now rest. Aymeric had returned to his duties, leaving Ikael under Thancred's observant eye, and is now taking a small break to watch Ikael himself.

Ikael has somehow managed to work himself into a completely different position than the one they had laid in him. It is ridiculous, and so endearing, and it tugs at Aymeric’s heart. They way he is clutching at a part of the blanket, the way his body curls as if to conserve more heat… it is not a side of him Aymeric is used to seeing.

There is nothing of a fighter in Ikael now, everything about him relaxed and soft. And isn’t that a word to use? Soft. How his skin looks. How his hair falls, how his lips are parted ever-so-slightly. Everything is so… _soft_ in slumber.

And yet Aymeric sees in Ikael more sharpness than anything, when he is awake. More odd, uneven ends not quite fitting together. How scratchy his voice is. His movements, quick and abrupt rather than fluid and seamless. The slanted edge of a grin before a fight, something in his eyes that invites _danger_ and _excitement_ , something that sparks it in Aymeric, as well. Although… perhaps for a different reason.

And that dual nature is _fascinating_ , is it not? The change in Ikael is not as drastic as the one in, say, Estinien—truly, Aymeric doubts anyone could be as drastic as Estinien—but it is something to behold nevertheless. Aymeric wonders if—

“You are going to light his face on fire if you keep staring at it like that.”

… And once more, Aymeric’s damned musings are interrupted who he is quickly coming to think is the Scion with the best ability to get under one’s skin.

“Good; he could use the heat,” Aymeric murmurs in reply, dragging his gaze away from Ikael to meet Thancred's knowing eye. He gets a raised eyebrow.

“I am sure he would be delighted to hear you say that.” Thancred perches himself on the bed. There is a hint of crude amusement to his words that Aymeric is used to hearing from Estinien, and he sighs slowly.

“Would he? Really?” He decides to respond sideways instead of straightforwardly; the best idea in this sort of verbal trap, he knows from experience. Experience from Estinien once again, regrettably, and not from the court.

Thancred looks at him shrewdly. Aymeric waits, hoping for at least a somewhat useful answer, although he does not expect one.

“You will have to ask Ikael himself,” Thancred says. “I am certainly not permitted to speak for him.”

“No, of course,” Aymeric replies quietly. “And I would not think to ask intrusive questions of him behind his back. But you must know… something, at least, of what he would think? You two seem…” _Close_. Aymeric glances at Ikael. “… to know each other well.”

“And if it seems so, it must be true?” Thancred crosses his arms. “We are good friends, yes. But nothing beyond that, since neither of us wish for it. And no, before you ask—it is not a matter of preferences not aligning.”

“I-I…” Aymeric blinks rapidly, caught off guard by his bluntness. Then he looks away, eyes lowering in shame.

“I should not have assumed. I apologize,” he says sincerely. He is startled by a low laugh. He glances back at Thancred, only to see him shaking his head.

“More people assume than do not, honestly,” he says with a flash of a grin. “And it is an understandable, although highly inaccurate, assumption to make. But alas, Ikael is no more drawn to my handsome visage than he is to a pretty picture. Something to admire on occasion, yes, but nothing he wishes to court or have intense, mind-blowing sex with.”

 Aymeric laughs outright at that, once more stunned by the crassness of his words. But he is more amused than offended. He thinks he might see why Thancred and Ikael are close.

“Ah—forgive me,” he says when he calms himself. “I was not expecting you to say something like that! However, I must admit it is a welcome change of pace. Ishgard is… ah…”

“Too full of windbags?” Thancred supplies. Aymeric chuckles.

“For lack of a better term, yes,” he agrees. Then his expression sobers, and he folds his hands together.

“So you have never…” He gestures vaguely. “Felt anything… unreciprocated towards him?”

The look Thancred gives him is almost pitying. “Not in the way you mean, no,” he says. “And even if I had, he would not have noticed in the slightest. He is… oblivious to how others feel about him, to put it lightly.”

“I see.” Aymeric glances at Ikael, who has been making a very quiet, airy rumbling noise that cannot quite be passed off as snoring. Interesting.

“Ser Aymeric, if I may.” Thancred attracts his attention once more. “He has not spoken to me much of his relationships that were of a more romantic nature. But if you truly find yourself drawn to him… speak with him. See where he stands on the matter.”

“You do no truly think he feels the same as I, do you?” Aymeric may not be trained in matters of subterfuge and stealth, but he is observant, and his skills have gotten him this far. “Else you would not have reacted as you did just now. You know him well; I am sure he is easy for you to read, or at least gossip with.”

Thancred's lips press together. He sighs, readjusting one of Ikael’s blankets. His openness these past few minutes has been a sign of something, surely? A man like this would not let anything slip that he does not know is slipping.

“Whether he has feelings for you or not—and again, I am not one to speak for him—at the _moment_ does not matter overmuch in the long scheme of things,” Thancred says. His gaze is steady, and Aymeric finds some comfort in it. “Such things can be cultivated. If he were to open himself up to the idea, then who can say for sure what will come of it?”

Aymeric considers this for a minute. He says, carefully, “I notice you are not… warning me off.”

Thancred shoots him a grin. “I am not his keeper,” he says, spreading his hands. “I will not interfere in something that is none of my business. Now, _if_ something were to happen, hypothetically, then you may hear all the threatening speeches you might think to receive from me. Ikael is a dear friend, after all, and it is my solemn duty. You should have seen me when Minfilia was growing up.” His grin turns sharp. “It was much worse. But back to the matter at hand; make what you think is the right choice, Aymeric. You know the risks involved, and you are smart enough to make an informed decision.”

He stands and stretches. “Ikael is going to wake up soon—look at him.” (Aymeric does; he seems no different than he had five minutes prior.) “I will go bother your poor steward for some tea, since you mentioned hot drinks helping earlier. Best of luck to you in your endeavors, Lord Commander.”

He bows, deep and grand, then straightens up with a wink before leaving the room.

Out of his sight now, Aymeric lets his shoulders fall, lets his eyes close. Yes, the proverbial kickball is in his court. But as to whether it will ever move from there…

_No._

Aymeric opens his eyes. Not yet, at least. Not now. He cannot…

No. But perhaps someday.

~*~


End file.
